


On the Clock

by canis_m



Category: No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series bakery shenanigans.  Warning for general offensiveness on Nezumi's part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Clock

The volume of the music startled Shion as he came through the door. His mother never turned it up so loud, even when the bakery was empty. Then he saw who was lounging in an apron--in an _apron_ \--behind the register.

"Welcome!" The tone was pitch-perfect shopgirl. "Can I tell you about our specials today, sir? Would you care to try a sample of _pain aux raisins?_ "

Shion had eaten _pain aux raisins_ for breakfast. His satchel slumped from his shoulder to the crook of his arm. "What are you doing?"

The angle of Nezumi's slouch conveyed smugness at his own performance and indifference to any effect it might produce. He'd tied a kerchief around his head, exactly the way Shion's mother wore hers, as if the apron alone were insufficient. The kerchief was paisley and bright red. "Your mama had to go out."

"I thought you had rehearsal," said Shion, with confused happiness.

"I thought you had a meeting."

"Postponed."

"Rescheduled." Nezumi's fingers hovered over the sample plate. He selected a piece of _pain aux raisins_ and popped it into his mouth.

His presence in an unexpected setting at an unexpected hour was more giddying than it had any right to be. Gravity lost its power to fix Shion's heels to the floor. He floated past the baguettes and whole-grain loaves and butter rolls and swirled rye, smiling with increasing foolishness, until his midriff bumped the edge of the counter.

Nezumi flipped shut the open script beside the register and stashed it in the drawer beneath. His arm snaked across the countertop to catch Shion by the wrist. Shion sucked in a breath, but instead of gripping harder, Nezumi slid his hand back to release all but the tips of Shion's fingers, which he lifted--high enough to clear the top of the register--as if to lead off a dance or a game of London Bridge. He raised his eyebrows.

Expelling the breath, Shion tightened his hold on Nezumi's fingers. Then he jumped up and heaved himself over the countertop, satchel and all, instead of going around the side.

He nearly sent the sample plate flying. Nezumi caught him as he came hurtling over. The noise he produced at their collision was something between an explosive bark and a snort.

"The _fuck_ \--you spastic--now I have to wipe off the--"

"I'll do it, I'll do it."

Shion's satchel hit the floor with a thump. Behind the counter the music was even louder: the bassline throbbed in his ribcage, overlaid with lilting guitar. He put his hand on Nezumi's shoulder and ran his fingers down the apron strap. It was cotton, the color of saffron, well worn.

"This _is_ my mom's." He interposed his finger between the strap and the soft grey henley underneath. "Her old one."

Hands spread on his waist, his hips, sliding and kneading with ambition. "Feeling Oedipal?"

Shion inclined upward until they were nose to nose. "Oedipus wasn't this into it," he said.

The _hm_ of appreciation tasted good in his mouth. He tilted his head for a better angle, was sinking his fingers into the rumple of apron over Nezumi's chest when the doorbell jingled again.

They broke the kiss without a sound. Before Shion could lurch backward Nezumi pivoted them sideways, past the track of the curtain that hid the kitchen from view, and yanked the curtain halfway shut. At the end of their spin they wound up pressed together again, chest to chest, with Nezumi's back to the wall. Instead of bending Nezumi planted his feet wide, sinking to even their heights.

"Wait," murmured Shion. He heard women's voices from beyond the curtain. He fumbled for the sound system controls along the wall.

Nezumi bumped their noses together. His eyelids drooped like a sleepy animal's, even if the glint underneath was wide awake.

Shion kept his voice low. "You're supposed to be minding the shop."

"They'll yell if they need help."

"What if they steal something?"

"A loaf of bread? If your mama wanted somebody to play Javert, she cast the wrong guy."

Shion tried to place the allusion and came up blank. It continued to gall him that no matter how much he read, there was always something he hadn't. Nezumi gave him a look of affectionate scorn.

"Didn't get as far as H yet?"

For a minute all Shion could think of was _ecchi,_ which made no sense, since they had gotten as far as that. In the broadest sense. "H?"

"Hugo, Victor?" Nezumi raised a hand to Shion's forehead and brushed back his hair, petting it with sweet patronizing strokes. "Don't worry, you can watch the musical. Anybody touches your mama's muffins without paying, I'll cut their throat."

"Nezumi--"

The hand withdrew. Nezumi straightened to regain his forfeited height and stared down. His smile had disappeared. "What. Not in the _mood?_ Is that the deal?"

Sighing, Shion grasped both of his wrists and stepped backward, drawing him away from the wall. "Of course I am. I always am with you. Even when I shouldn't be." He lowered his chin. "Like now."

With a shove he propelled Nezumi beyond the curtain, into plain view of the front of the shop. Surprise lit Nezumi's face for a second, followed by something sharper, and then the sharpness disappeared behind a plastered smile as he stepped out.

Shion had time to regret turning the music down as he waited in the kitchen, listening to the entire spiel. Would the ladies care to try the _pain aux raisins_? Why yes they'd love to, oh my, they'd better have one of those. And a ham-and-cheese croissant--make that two--and two coffees...it was such a surprise to find someone other than Karan here! Was he a regular employee? No, not regular, just doing a favor for Ms. K. He was thinking about asking for more hours, though...hard to get by on an actor's wages. An actor! No wonder he looked familiar--they were sure they'd seen him on stage. It was all the rage now, wasn't it, the "revival of the arts"...what had he performed in? Oh, this and that. Mostly Shakespeare. They should come and see _Twelfth Night_ starting in November. He could get them a discount on tickets. Special service for the ladies. Would they prefer to carry out, or dine in?

When Nezumi came into the kitchen to fetch the coffees he swept past Shion without a glance. Deflated, Shion lowered his eyes to the kitchen counter. There was a plate of sandwiches already made--one of them halfway eaten--and a bowl of apples fresh from the North Block. He reached for an apple and bit into it without enthusiasm, peeking up to watch Nezumi's long, pale fingers pour the coffee into cups, to watch him carry the cups out beyond the curtain. The apple was crisp, almost too tart, but the taste reminded him that he was hungry. His morning meeting at the water treatment plant had run long, even if the latter part had been deferred.

The customers lingered. Shion waited for Nezumi's singsong _thank you, please come again_ , and waited another minute after the doorbell jittered before drawing the curtain aside.

Nezumi was facing away from him, emphatically, rearranging the sample plate on the counter with mock scrupulousness. Shion took a step nearer to him and stopped.

"Nezumi." He spoke gently. "I didn't mean to make you mad. If I wasn't in the mood, I wouldn't have jumped over the counter."

The corner of Nezumi's mouth twitched.

"But there's a time for work and a time for--"

"Spare me, all right. I see the error of my ways." His back and shoulders stiffened as Shion shuffled up behind him to hug him around the waist. "Excuse me? There's a time for work, and?"

"But they're gone now," said Shion, blinking. "The customers."

Nezumi craned his neck to stare. His pupils narrowed to black pinpoints in stark grey.

He wrenched himself around and seized Shion by the arm.

"You know what? Next time somebody walks though that door?" His voice dropped to the pitch that made the end of Shion's spine quiver. His grip clamped hard enough to grind bone. "We're going to give them a little show. You, bent over this nice counter, and me--"

The doorbell jingled. They both turned.

Nezumi dropped Shion's arm as if it were a coiling snake.

"Hi, Mom," said Shion.

"Oh, you're here," said his mother, smiling. She shifted the canvas shopping bag tucked against her waist. "If I'd known you were coming home for lunch I wouldn't have had to ask Nezumi to watch the store." She bustled toward the kitchen. "Thank you, Nezumi, you're a lifesaver. I'm sorry for the trouble."

Nezumi cleared his throat. He reached upward to remove the kerchief from his head, like a man doffing his hat in the presence of a lady. "It's no trouble. Any time."

He wadded the kerchief in his palm. The uselessness of the motion was so unlike him and so endearing that Shion nearly bent to kiss his knuckles, never mind that there was a parent in the room. Instead he met Nezumi's eyes steadily and warmly. Nezumi looked unsteadily back.

"Mom, is Nezumi off the clock now?"

"What? Yes, of course. Have you eaten yet? I left some sandwiches--"

"We found them," said Shion, ducking sideways to the kitchen. "Thanks." The plate was in his hand. With his other hand he caught Nezumi by the apron strings. Nezumi stifled a disgruntled noise and allowed himself to be towed. "We'll be upstairs."

They pitched up the narrow stairway in single file, Nezumi in front, Shion stumbling a little on withheld laughter. "You were saying?" he asked, when they reached the quiet dimness of the landing. "About a show?"

"Canceled." Nezumi's voice was smooth. "You're crushed, I realize, but it's not in my best interest to traumatize my landlady." He lifted the plate of sandwiches from Shion's hand and bumped him sidelong into the wall. There was no force behind the jostling: it was almost tentative. Shion let it move him anyway, let himself be pinned to the wall by Nezumi's hips. Nezumi looked down at him intently, holding the plate above their heads with the tips of all five fingers. "Still. If I'd known you had a thing for aprons, I would've put one on sooner just to mess with you."

"It's not the apron," said Shion, shaking his head.

In the face of his earnestness Nezumi leered. "Sure it's not."

"I mean it."

"Your Majesty doth protest too much, methinks."

"It's not," murmured Shion. He was glad to have both hands free to reach with. He buried them greedily deep in the apron's pockets and balled them into fists. "It's you in it."


End file.
